


Keepers

by rsulonen



Category: Original Work
Genre: Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Original Fiction, original short story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-22
Updated: 2017-05-22
Packaged: 2018-11-03 16:46:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10971303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rsulonen/pseuds/rsulonen





	1. The First

After the first few times, you would have thought people would have connected the dots. But, it seems that people are too oblivious to notice what is right beneath their noses. I guess that is why though. Why should people have to look down, go beneath them to see what is really going on? I guess I just work differently from the rest of the world. I don’t want to look down from my high pedestal. I want to be down in the dirt, digging for information that I would not be able to find from any higher. I want to see every minute detail in life, even if I cannot always see the big picture. I want to be with people, surrounded by them, working with them, not supervising, and avoiding them. That is just not who I am, and I don’t regret that.

But, I know I don’t work like the rest of the world. I am just different. I have always been different, and I would not have it any other way. I need to be different because that is who I am. Do you think you could change if given the option? I mean sure, initially I would want to get rid of my days where I did something awkward, or I was embarrassed, or someone was mean to me, or I cried, but each of those days has taught me something, and has shaped who I am today. Why would I ever want to get rid of that? I am special, and I am just the way I was always supposed to be. Life isn’t easy, but that doesn’t mean I would want to change it.

I guess, you might be wondering about who I am. I mean, if I haven’t scared you away with my first two almost philosophical paragraphs, then maybe you are interested in what I actually have to say. So, here is my background. I grew up in a family of four kids, and my parents have always been together. They were high school sweethearts, and I always love telling their love story, but it also kind of screwed me for a while. My parents all throughout high school were on and off dating, but ultimately, I think they always knew they would end up together. When I reached high school, and no one showed any interest in me, I was extremely down trodden. High school just wasn’t my thing too much. I remember my mother telling me one day that I “shouldn’t date,” and that I “just need to court.” That really threw me for a loop. It’s hard to figure out life as an adult, how was I supposed to do it as a teenager? But the pressure I felt (although it was all imaginary) to have a significant other while I was still in high school was intense, and it made me feel inadequate. Especially when I knew my sister was already dating. I felt defective, which is often harder to deal with than just being different. It also did not make it any easier that I was bullied everyday in math class for actually liking math. What is there not to like about math? It is systemic, and it follows a logical progression. I’m sorry that you don’t like it, but you also talk through the entire class. If you want to understand the material, then pay attention, don’t talk, and don’t take your frustration out on me. That’s just not fair and it’s not right.

I’ve spent a fair amount of time in the hospital. When I was eleven, I spent a week in the hospital, where the doctors diagnosed me with type 1 diabetes, which is VERY DIFFERENT FROM TYPE 2 DIABETES. I feel like I cannot express enough the pain I feel when people assume I have type 2 diabetes and it is because I ate too much sugar as a child, or I was given too much candy. That’s not how it works, and if you are so unwilling to relearn, well, I don’t want you reading my story anyway. After that week in the hospital, things started to look up, but it was not as if I was skipping through valleys with daisies surrounding me, belting at the top of my lungs. No, I was pricking my finger, injecting insulin, and climbing up a never-ending mountain. There might be some landing where I put my footing every once in a while, but nothing solid enough for me to stand on for a long period of time. But all together, I survived childhood.

Now, I have graduated college, and I am working for a wonderful little hospice home in the middle of nowhere. It is a beautiful place, and all of the people here are absolutely pleasant, but something just always seems a little… well, I guess, a little off to me. It just seems like people are too nice to be dying. I know that some people with terminal illnesses SOMETIMES come to terms with their illnesses, and accept death as is, but every person in this home? And it is not just patients either, everyone else on the staff seems to be pretty cool with it. Like it’s normal to have a death every other day in the house. I am not sure if people have just gone numb to the pain of losing people, or if I am the oddball out again, getting attached to people who don’t have to time to get attached. I spend every moment I can in this house.

No, like I really spend every moment in this house. After the head honchos learned that I was a recent college graduate it, they decided to let me move into the house. So, in reality, this place is more than just where I work. It is also where I live. It has become my home. Although slowly, it has become a place that I really love. Imagine going along one day, not knowing what you were doing, finding a job, still not knowing what you were doing, and being completely on your own with no family in the area. It is just a bunch of crazy random happenstances, that just so happen to coincide, but you still don’t have a place to live. That is hard to deal with, when everything is falling into place, but you don’t have a place. I don’t miss those days. I do, however, miss my family. They live half way across the world right now, and I have no way of getting there. I am kind of stuck where I am right now. 

But back to the home. All of my friends live here now too. No, not the friends I had in high school, or college. They all left me, moved on to bigger and better things (I think that’s just how the world works). Also, I never really felt like I was particularly close to any of them. I mean, I liked them, but I always felt a little different, but I never felt like I was too different. I was just who I was, and everyone else was just who they were. There was no way around it; I was just me.  
However, this story is not about my background, and I think you will figure out about me as we go along with this story, but first, lets start.  
   
This is always the hard part. With whom do I start? That doesn’t feel like it should be a sentence, I feel like it should be, when do I start? Or where do I start? But no, with WHOM do I start? I don’t think I should start at the beginning. He just isn’t the right person with whom to start. I guess I will start with Lorraine. I don’t know if I would call her a friend, per say, but she definitely would talk my ear off, and she always had the best stories.


	2. Ms. Lorraine Jones

Ms. Lorraine Jones was a relatively young woman to be in this little hospice house. She was only about 50 years old, but did not have any family that could take care of her, so her hospital pass her onto us. They did not know what to do with her, she was dying, so they got rid of her, without killing her. So, Ms. Lorraine Jones would sit everyday out on her rocking chair, knitting away with her chunky, obnoxiously colored neon yarn (that looks like it belongs in the 80s) working away on a scarf she would never be able to wear. She came to us shortly before summer started this past year. Having been hired in April, I still lacked in my comfortability in the area, but I tried not to show it. She came to us in May, we showed up at two weeks apart. We were both new, so we bonded quickly, although over trivial stuff. When I was younger, I always wanted to travel to Egypt. It was my dream. When I was 10, I planned an entire trip from Poulsbo, Washington to Chicago, Illinois because the King Tut exhibit was traveling around the United States, and at the time, this was the closest to where I lived that worked in our time frame. Plus, Chicago had one of the two American Girl Stores in the country. It was very important for my little 10 year old self to get to this place, specifically. My parents cultivated this love for me. They bought me books, whenever we could afford it, and when we couldn’t, they took me to the library to satisfy my desire to read more about the Ancient Egyptian world. Whenever there was a documentary on the television, they would let me stay up that extra hour or so to watch it, or if it was on really late, they would set a VCR into our recorder and record the show for me to watch at a later time. One year, I even went around as Queen Nefertiti for Halloween (everyone thought I was Cleopatra, I was a little miffed). 

Ms. Lorraine had been to all of the places that I was never able to go to as a small child. She saw the Great Pyramids of Giza, she even (illegally) climbed to the top of the one of them. She loved telling the story how she escaped authorities afterwards. She sat there, rhythmically moving in her rocking chair.

“You know, Sam, I remember the day I decided to climb the pyramid. I was scared beyond my wildest dreams. I mean, how many people get to climb to the top of a pyramid? It was so high,” she was having one of those days where she almost felt sorry for herself, but (like most people here) she had already accepted her fate, so she was not necessarily disappointed. It was almost has if she were struggling to remember what had happened.

“What could you see from up there?” I asked, trying to keep the conversation going, and give her the opportunity to finish the story. Plus, I wanted to know what happened. It was not enough for me to hear that she climbed to the top. What happened after that?

“Oh, I could see everything,” Lorraine lifted her hands above her head, arching them in a rainbow fashion to demonstrate how far she could see. “It was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. I could see the tops of the other pyramids, and how glorious their burial rituals must have been.” At this point, her eyes glazed over a little bit, as if she were reminiscing on this memory, or falling asleep. “I watched from the top of the pyramid as a caravan of tourist drove up, and I imagined, if I were significantly slower, I made time slowdown in my head, what a burial would have looked like from up here.” 

“What do you think it would have sounded like? I mean, the Egyptians weren’t known for being a quiet group of mourners. They would hire women in wail as they progressed in burial proceedings. I am not sure how well that would have gone over today,” I stared with admiration at this woman I had become acquainted with over the last week. 

“You know, I didn’t really think about how they would have sounded,” Lorraine said, rolling her head to face me (we had been overlooking the small like behind the house from the porch). “It was just so quiet, and peaceful for me to know that I was standing on history. I am not sure if I would have wanted to hear anything else. The city is right there, so it was already very loud, I just felt the world go quiet around me, and I took in the glory of what humans have created. Could you image anything better? I don’t remember any sounds until I returned to my hotel room that night, somehow I escaped the authorities. But back to the burial idea,” she continued her knitting again, knitting one row, purling the next two. “I am making a scar for myself for the winter. I want to still be able to enjoy the porch, even when it’s cold.”

“But Ms. Lorraine,” I said back to her, “It is not even June yet. I think you will have time to work on it before winter. Wouldn’t you rather read a book outside? Or maybe I could smuggle you in some scrapbooking supplies. I know you have a ton of pictures from your adventure. We could work on that, while sitting out here, talking about your stories. What do you think? It would give you a project that wouldn’t cause you to overheat in this May weather. You know, it’s supposed to be in the 90s tomorrow.” Ms. Lorraine seemed to contemplate what I was saying. Obviously, something was working in her brain, because a small smile worked its way across her face. I wonder what she is thinking, I thought to myself looking at her devious eyes as they scanned my face.

“If you are so keen at hearing my stories, and seeing my pictures,” she said to me, almost manically. “Why don’t you scrap book and write my stories while I sit here and knit? That way we can both do what we truly want to do. And don’t even try to deny that you want to hear more of my stories. I know it’s true.”  
There was no point in arguing with her, she was right, and she knew she was right. I patently sat there going over my options. I could continue to sit here, not doing anything, just listening to Ms. Lorraine talk. While it would be interesting to hear her stories, I am not sure if I could stay awake the entire time. It is not that she is not a great storyteller, it’s that sitting for four or five hours on end listening to someone talk is sometimes a little tiring. Or I could scrap book and write her stories, which (lets be honest) I would absolutely love. I have always loved working with my hands, and this would just be great. To hear her stories, ask her questions. I decided this would be a great time to start too. Ms. Lorraine’s prognosis, while still grim, was extended, and even on bad days we could work in her room, or we could just chat, not worrying about anything at all. 

“Fine,” I said, a little indignant so she would know that it was not my original intention (although it made it easier that she suggested it). 

“I knew you would agree,” she said. “I’ll be right back,” and she sprung from her rocking chair, walking towards her room, next door. By the time she returned, her rocking chair had stopped rocking, and I sat there twiddling my thumbs intrigued by what she had to get. I had assumed it would be more yarn, maybe a change of needles (she liked the way it looked, having to work with different needles every so often to create a different pattern). While she did come back with these items, she handed me a small baby blue box. “This is where we start,” she said before returning to her seat. “Before you open it, I have a list of things you must do. First, get some newspaper. I don’t want my pictures on that grimy old table. Then, you’re going to have to get something with which to write, or to record. Because I am going to talk, and I am going to talk fast. So, you had better be ready. Oh, and you should probably move that table over here. There is no way I am getting up and moving again.” 

I was not prepared for her to be this ready and willing to work with me. Okay, here we go, this is your chance to bond. Take it and go with it. Plus, you know you will enjoy scrapbooking and her stories. What is the worst that can happen? But, I was off to find some newspaper and tape, and my phone so I could record our conversations, or what I thought would be a conversation. The paper was easy enough to find. I went into our main recreation room and searched through our recycling bin. There was easily ten papers in there. Something about the people here, they just love reading the paper. And I can’t really blame them. There is not much to entertain you in this place. We have a TV that looks like it belongs in the 60s, and only works some of the time. Our library is not worth noting. At one point, I hear, it was quite beautiful. The room still could be, but no one wants to put in the effort to fix it. It is a huge room, with a vaulted ceiling. Imagine Beauty and the Beasty type of library, but the shelves are empty and there has been no upkeep. The floor has holes in the carpet, and the chairs that were once an ornate picture perfect piece of furniture, turned into something you would see at a garage sale, only to have it end up in the trashcan. But, I guess that reflects a lot of this house. First, it used to be a mansion. It belonged to some sort of Playboy type person in the late 1700s and early 1800s. After he died, his family wanted nothing to do with his former lifestyle, so they sold it to the government. The government used it as an insane asylum; however, they decided to store all of the original furniture. When it eventually reached private hands again, the government returned all of the furniture (and everything else that was in the house at the time it was sold). The current owners decided to keep some of the furniture, but ultimately got rid of a lot of it, or so I have heard. I wish I could have seen this house in all of its glory. I think it would have been beautiful, and can you image the atmosphere? The only thing is, it is always so dark inside. The walls are all dark wood, and there are only a few windows. Obviously enough to meet government standards, but not a whole lot more than the minimum required number. The best room in the entire house is the former greenhouse. Now, it houses one of our day rooms, but in all its glory, it housed orange, lemon, and grapefruit trees year round so the owners could have juice whenever they wanted. It is so bright, and just delightful. I would spend every waking moment in the room if I could, but I have been assigned to Ms. Lorraine Jones, so I must stick with her.

And she preferred to stay outside and knit, regardless of the temperature. But she didn’t like to be alone. For a while, the home decided to rotate who would sit outside with her, but Ms. Lorraine can be a little… well, a little harsh, blunt, and sometimes come off as rude, but that never really bothered me. She never meant to be mean, in fact, the more she made fun of you, was blunt, and/or rude, it meant she approved of you more and more. Let me tell you, if someone were to hear her talk to me, I am afraid they would send her away. She just mocks and mocks and mocks, but I always know that she likes me. That’s just the way she is. But, she also understands that some days are just hard, and that she cant just berate me the entire time. Ms. Lorraine knows when too much is too much, and will ease up, even just a little, because she doesn’t want to hurt someone. At this point, I had gotten the newspaper, my phone, and was moving the table between Ms. Lorraine and I. 

“Finally,” she said to me as I set the table down between us. “You sure did take your own sweet time, now didn’t you?” I nodded, only half acknowledging what she was saying. That table is significantly heavier than it looks, I thought to myself. Maybe next time I should have her move it. I chuckled to myself a little. “What are you laughin’ at?” Ms. Lorraine looked like she was about ready to send lasers through my head with her eyes; but thankfully, I survived.

“Okay… Okay… I’m ready…” I said, half breathlessly while also setting up the newspaper, but I did not want knowing what was going on in my head. 

“Well, it’s about time,” Ms. Lorraine huffed at me, momentarily plopping her yarn down on her lab. She pulled out the small, light blue box, and stared me down again. “Do you know what is in this box?” She was looking at me square in the eyes. I politely looked at her, “you should pull out your phone now.” I hurriedly, and clumsily pulled out my phone and started recording. “This is the only time I repeat myself. Do you know what is in this box?” 

“No, ma’am, I do not.” I shifted my gaze from her eyes, to the box. Why was this box so special and why was she so protective of it? I have seen everything else in her room. She made it a point to leave everything out for viewing. She had several bookcases just filled with photo boxes (which is how I knew she had so many pictures) and her collection of items from her time abroad. But this box, this small, light blue box, I had never seen. 

“This is my baby boy.”  
   
I guess I should have known that it would be something big like that in this little box. And I guess the color kind of gave it away, but for some reason it just didn’t click in my head. Plus, I have learned that making assumption about people leads to really awkward situations. BUT, MS. LORRAINE, my rude, harsh, globetrotter, Ms. Lorraine, HAD SON!?! My moth was just hanging open trying to wrap my brain around what she just told me.

“Stop gawking and listen,” Ms. Lorraine spat at me as she shoved the box in my direction. “This is my son. He did not live long, but my story is as much his as it is mine.” I grabbed the box and started pulling the small articles of clothing, rattles, and pictures from the box. At this point, Ms. Lorraine also softened. I am not sure if I had ever seen her so gentle as she was right now. I guess her motherly instincts were kicking in, but most of all; I think she was missing what could have been. 

“When did this…” I couldn’t bring myself to finish my sentence, there was so much in such a small box. I felt like Mary Poppins as she constantly pulls stuff out of her carpetbag. What was I to do with all of this stuff? It felt never ending. 

“I will get there,” she said, looking at me, then at the stuff, then at me again. “I figured I should get the hardest story over with first so you can get it done with, and I don’t have to talk about it anymore than I want to. Are you ready to begin? I want to make sure that you are ready. I have decided that this project is important to me.”

“Okay.” I said, putting some of the stuff down, to make sure that my phone was recording. “Whenever you’re ready.”

“It was the summer of 1987. I was 25 years old, I had finished college and I was moving up in the world. I already had an amazing job at a law firm and I was projected to be a partner within the next year.” She paused for a second, took the box from me and started digging through it. She pulled out an old picture with several men in black suits and one woman with a giant perm and kitty heals. “I thought I was going to be partnered because I was a good lawyer. I finished college early, I was only 19 when I graduated, and I finished law school in three years because I took an accelerated program. So I was already established by the time my peers were just finishing college. But, I was going to be partnered because the ‘head honcho’ liked me, but I did not like him. And so did his son, and him, him I liked. One night, I was working late. Not late as in 3 am, but late. It was probably around 8 or 9 pm. I was never much of a night person, and I would only work until I got it done. No longer. That just wasn’t who I was. No one ever complained about me, so why should it be a problem?” Her eyes were starting to well with tears. I wasn’t sure what she would want me to do in this situation, so I just sat there and listened. What more can I really do? I thought to myself. Today is going to be a long day.

“I may not be much of a looker now, but I was back then. I could walk into a room and I instantly had everyone’s attention. I thought I loved it. I think that’s why I dominated in the court room. People just loved me because I could make people do whatever I wanted them to. Wow, I sound so manipulative, but I guess that was also my job.” She again paused, collecting her thoughts, before she continued. “Well, this night I was working late, so was the head honcho and his son. I had heard them yelling from the father’s office, but let it go. It wasn’t my business and I was not going to make it my business. I just wanted to get my work done and go to bed. I enjoy my sleep. I was almost done with the son walks out, tail between his legs, and his father walks up to my desk. 

“‘Hiya,’ he said. ‘What are you still doing here? I thought you would have left hours ago.’ At this point I was a little more concerned than I should have. He never talks to me, and he smelled of alcohol. 

“‘I am just finishing what I need for tomorrow. I’ll be out of here in the next couple of minutes.’ Now, my hairs were standing on edge, and I could feel my adrenaline pumping. His son walked to the elevator and was getting ready to go, but I could see his head turned just so slightly in my direction. ‘I promise I won’t charge overtime for this. I am just getting ready for tomorrow. I would do this in my apartment, but I get distracted there.’ I tried to reassure myself that nothing was wrong. Everything would be okay.” Ms. Lorraine took a deep breathe. I think it was mostly to relieve the emotions that had built up over time. I still don’t know if she ever told anyone else this story, but I felt like I was the only one who had ever heard what she was telling me. “I’m not going to give you the gory details. Let’s just say I was let go later that year, and so was the son. To make this long story short, the father raped me that night, it was dark and the father and son ended up fighting after the son found me. The father later committed suicide; we all knew he would never go to trial. The son protected me, and stuck with me through the pregnancy. At one point, we were even engaged. But, when the baby died…” Ms. Lorraine trailed off, lost in thought. 

“When Titus was born, yes, he was named Titus, we loved him. We love him so much and there was nothing in the world that could ever have been wrong with him. It was just us and him, and there was no one else in the world. But, death has a cruel way of spreading his wings across the world. As we were driving one day, the breaks stopped working. We all died. I mean, I didn’t die for every, but my heart stopped beating. When I reached the hospital, the doctors were able to restart my heart, but only physically. My metaphorically heart will always be stopped. Afterwards, I decided to travel. That’s how I got where I am today, or rather was yesterday.” Ms. Lorraine stopped. She had stopped knitting, she had stopped talking, and she just gazed out over the lake from the porch. “Please stop recording now.” 

“Okay.” I picked up my phone, stopped the recording and continued to sit there in silence. I wasn’t sure what to say. I don’t think I should put that in the scrapbook. But if she needed to tell someone that story, I am glad she felt comfortable enough to tell me. 

“Maybe that wasn’t the best story to start with.” Ms. Lorraine turned her head back towards me. “I’m sorry for sharing that story. It isn’t exactly a cheerful, happy-go-lucky story like the rest of mine. I figured that if I was going to tell you these stories, that I should tell you all of them, not just the happy ones. And I’m sorry that it kind of fell apart at the end. I’m not really sure what happened with my memories there. I felt like they were there one second, then the next gone. But I can still feel them. But that is my son, Titus, and my would have been husband, fiancé, Ryan. I don’t like to talk about them. It hurts too much for me.” She turned back towards the lake. “I think I want to sit here in silence for a little longer. Would you get my dinner afterwards? Please eat with me.” Her words sounded like she did desire someone to stay with her, so I sat outside with her for another thirty minutes, then moved to get our dinners, chicken and rice.

“Maybe tomorrow,” Ms. Lorraine said, “while were eating dinner I’ll share a better story. Something a little happier. Like the time I partied with King Ramsey’s III, or when I travelled Greece with Odysseus. Something a little more productive for that scrapbook you’re making me. Sound like a plan?” She reached her hand out towards me, not quite in a shaking motion, but enough to know I was to at least hold it. 

“Deal.” I said, taking her hand and rocking in sync with her chair. “Maybe tomorrow I’ll have our scrapbooking supplies too. I’ll try to run out tonight.” Then we sat, rocking, holding hands, pretending like nothing was wrong, but contemplating life together and the cruelty of it. 

The next morning she pulled out an old cardboard box. This box had seen better days, and out in the sun, it looked like it would fall apart if too much sun shone on it. Surprisingly, there was no damage to anything within the box.


End file.
